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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24103489">Right</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDaDahlias/pseuds/DayDaDahlias'>DayDaDahlias</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Panic! at the Disco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Brendon is high, Concerned Ryan, Cussing, Emotional Hurt, Hurt, M/M, One Shot, Open Ending, Past Relationship(s), Past Tense, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Ryan is pissed, Sad Brendon, Sad Ryan, Smoking, Talk of Suicide, They're sad, lots of cussing, sad guys, this is just straight... sad bois</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:08:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24103489</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDaDahlias/pseuds/DayDaDahlias</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three years since the band broke up, so when Ryan gets a call at two in the morning from Brendon saying that he's in jail and needs help, Ryan is allowed to be surprised.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(implied) Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes, (past) Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Right</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I found this in my drive tonight and I was like "aye content boys" so here it is while I'm writing the seventh chapter of <em>Thursday's Purpose</em> because this was actually the starting draft! How fun!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I didn't need your help," Brendon grumbled as he attempted to pull his arm from around Ryan's shoulder. Ryan kept a steadfast grip on it though. Wouldn't dare let him go unless he had to. So far, he didn't have to. </p><p>God, how could Brendon do this to himself? What was wrong with him? What the hell? Ryan couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He just plain couldn’t. Woken up in the dead of night—two fucking a.m.—with a call from none other than <em>Brendon Urie</em>, a man he hadn’t talked to in well over three years, saying he was in jail. Fucking jail! And that he needed Ryan, of all people, to come get him. </p><p>Ryan hadn’t even asked fucking questions, he had been so floored. In such a stupor that all he said was, “where? Are you okay?”</p><p>And Brendon had snorted into the phone and said, “baby, I never been better” but there was a slur to his words and a droop to his tone and Ryan guessed he had never been worse. </p><p>“I uh—” Brendon broke off in a laugh— "I’ll be honest, Ry, I’m tripping balls.”</p><p>So Ryan had gotten dressed and by two-thirty in the morning, he was jogging to the police station to collect his ex-bandmate. His car was in the fucking shop—because it was his fucking life and everything was falling the fuck apart all the fucking time—so he ran there. It wasn't far. A mile maybe.</p><p>Ryan's head hurt just thinking about the things Brendon Urie did when he wasn't around to stop him.  </p><p>Three fucking years. Three <em>years</em>; he hadn’t heard shit. And now, suddenly, out of the blue, Brendon Urie called him and asked him to bail him out of jail for being high. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. Ryan didn’t deserve this. This was bullshit.</p><p>And Brendon had the fucking <em>audacity</em> to say some dumb ass shit like, “I didn’t need your help,” the prick. </p><p>"When you don't need my help to stand," Ryan returned curtly, his voice holding poison, "maybe I'll believe you."</p><p>"I <em>didn't</em>," Brendon insisted and his voice raised in pitch. </p><p>He was mad. Why was he mad? How could <em>he</em> be mad? Ryan was the one who should be mad—was allowed to be furious. It was two-thirty in the goddamn morning; Ryan should have been in bed. But no. No, Brendon Urie had to do some dumb shit like he always fucking did, even before the band broke up, and Ryan had to be called to clean that mess up. Just like always. </p><p>Felt too fucking familiar.</p><p>"Then why did you call?" Ryan snapped. </p><p>Anger bubbled up from his stomach. He was allowed to be mad. He had a right to be mad. It was his goddamned right to be pissed off at Brendon Urie. That was their system. Brendon was stupid. Ryan was mad. That's how they worked. How they <em>had</em> worked before it all went to shit.</p><p>Ryan said, "If you 'didn't need my help’ then why? Why the hell did you call me at two in the goddamn morning because, honestly, I could have done without it. I have a bed at home, Brendon, did you know that? A nice ass bed and one that I would like to be sleeping in right now. But instead I'm here. On the street corner. With you. With fucking <em>you</em>. So tell me really, who needs whose help here?"</p><p>Brendon ducked his head, scowling. His cheeks glowed a shade of pink in the dark. He grunted out, "It was you or some jail cell with a guy named Mike and at least I know that if I drop my soap in your bathroom, you won't—"</p><p>"Okay! Wow!" Ryan exclaimed swiftly, cutting him off. "I got it, you dick. You don't need to tell me anything else. Please, for the love of God, don't tell me anything else."</p><p>Brendon, sufficiently pleased with the discomfort Ryan had displayed, settled back into the other man's grip, limping his way along. Why was he limping? What had he done? God, what had Brendon done this time? Ryan was going sick with it. </p><p>"Oh, sweet Ryan," Brendon hummed, "how simple you are."</p><p>Ryan growled but didn't say anything else. He only kept walking, what he could only assume to be anger burning up his throat all the while. </p><p>"Do you know how simple you are?" Brendon asked, directed to his side. Ryan didn't say anything. Brendon snorted. "Really fucking simple."</p><p>"Okay, thanks, Brendon," Ryan said back. "Thanks for telling me I'm fucking simple. I appreciate it so much. You have no idea how much I just absolutely appreciate you telling me how simple I am."</p><p>Brendon looked at him a moment. Blinked slowly. As if he couldn't quite place where Ryan's anger had come from. How <em>dare</em> he not know. </p><p>"It's not an insult," Brendon said, taken aback, and his voice was smaller than Brendon Urie's voice was meant to be. Supposed to be. This wasn't how Ryan planned things or remembered things and it most certainly was not how he wanted them.  </p><p>Ryan jerked his head to the side. His glare softened for a brief second. Calculating. He looked Brendon over, his disheveled clothes and fucked hair that was matted to a sweaty forehead, his body leaning heavily on Ryan’s to stay upright. He wasn't taller, Ryan was pleased to note. Still had to look up at Ryan through those inky eyelashes of his.</p><p>Ryan asked, lowered, "what?"</p><p>"It's not an insult," Brendon repeated. His voice took on a more hardened approach. More similar to what Ryan expected of him. "I'm not insulting you. I'm telling you that... That it's not an insult. Saying you’re simple. I don't mean it bad."</p><p>"Ly." Ryan glanced at the ground, the black boots that Brendon wore were scuffing along the pavement as they walked. Screeching. He swallowed. "It's bad<em>ly</em>, Brendon. Adverb."</p><p>"Okay." Brendon let himself be dragged along by Ryan's less than steady hands. "Adverb. I didn't mean it badly. Not in a badly way."</p><p>Ryan bit his teeth together and massaged his temple. That headache was really coming by to say hello. <em>Hello, hello in there. Let me in, let me in, I want to eat away your brain and shatter your sanity.</em> </p><p>Ryan chose not to correct Brendon again. He was too tired to get into that signature Ross-Urie argument that they always did. He took pause, a realization dawning on him that no matter the circumstances, Brendon and he always had a habit of fighting. Even when they hadn’t talked in three years… Had there ever been a time where Brendon and he hadn't been at each other's throats? Most likely, no. Even though he loved Brendon—even when they had been… whatever they had been… they had been fighting. </p><p>Although, Ryan wondered briefly if they were actually fighting each other or fighting themselves and using each other as a cover. </p><p>Ryan Ross liked conflict too much to let it go unfought. </p><p>"What does it mean?" he asked, and he didn't know if it was an attempt to start a fight or not. "Simple? That I'm simple, what do you mean by it?"</p><p>"I don't mean anything by it," Brendon said back. </p><p>He leaned heavier against Ryan, his body oppressive and overwhelming against Ryan's side. He had half a mind to step out of the way and let the man fall. No, no, couldn't do it. Couldn't do it. That would be bad. Ryan wasn't a bad person. Despite the fact that Brendon constantly tried to draw that out of him. </p><p>"Yeah, you do," Ryan replied. He swallowed. "You can't say something and mean nothing, everything means something."</p><p>Brendon chuckled. "And that, man, is why you're simple."</p><p>Ryan scowled, displeased. He still didn't know what that was supposed to mean, and it was pissing him off severely. Perhaps it was just Brendon's obnoxious energy. Everything about him rubbed Ryan the wrong way. </p><p>Why was Ryan with him again? Why had he even answered the call? Three years. He didn’t owe Brendon Urie shit. Why was he here? He really didn't want to be here. He really, really didn't want to be here. Why was he here?</p><p>Why had Brendon called <em>him</em>?</p><p>"Hey, c'mon, I see a bus stop up ahead," he announced, leading Brendon to the bench that he could see in the darkness a few yards in front of them. </p><p>He needed to set the man down for a minute; Brendon was fucking heavy. And if a bus happened to come along and offered to take Brendon away and off Ryan's hands, then a bus happened to come along and take Brendon away. </p><p>Ryan prayed a bus happened to come along. He was not about to drag Brendon's limp-ass body back to his apartment. </p><p>"What're you gonna do?" Brendon asked as Ryan carefully set him down on the seat. Instantly, Brendon’s heavy body slacked, falling to the side. Ryan caught him by the shoulder to keep him upright. Brendon blinked up at him, as if surprised that he had started falling. His black eyes were large. "C’mon, Ross? What’re you gonna do? Huh? Dump me off on a bus and hope it takes me home?"</p><p>Ryan glared at him. Stood still beside the bench, posture stiff. Considered telling Brendon that was exactly what he was planning on doing. But then he thought to himself that what would make Spencer—that traitor—really mad? Him taking care of Brendon. Him being a good friend. God, Spencer would hate that. The realization that Ryan was actually a good fucking person and hadn’t deserved to be separated from his own fucking band. <em>His</em> fucking band.</p><p>And so he sat down beside Brendon. He made sure to keep a few inches between them. </p><p>"If a bus comes, we can take it together," he said reluctantly, "but right now I'm just setting you down so we can wait a minute. My legs hurt. Carrying you and all. You fat ass."</p><p>Brendon snorted. "I don't weigh that much, don't pitch a fit. I’ve lost weight, if anything."</p><p>"Well, you're certainly not light." </p><p>"Aye!" Brendon shoved him jovially in the shoulder, and the movement was slurred like his speech, but his smile was wide. </p><p>Why was he smiling so wide? Asshole. Ryan considered being jealous. When was the last time he smiled so wide? Actually, though, he couldn't give this point to Brendon. Brendon was high. High people were always happy. Cheater.  </p><p>"I am... very light. Light as a cloud," Brendon continued. </p><p>"High as a cloud, maybe," Ryan returned. </p><p>"Well, I'm that too." Brendon laughed, so pleased with himself. </p><p>"What were you even on?" Ryan asked after a beat. He sounded rather accusing. He knew that. But he meant it to sound that way. He was allowed to accuse.</p><p>Brendon had a lot to answer for. He was high at two in the morning. And arrested, no less. And he had called Ryan. Not Spencer. Not those new touring members, whatever their names were. Not his crew. Not his manager. Not even fucking Pete, who would have come by. But <em>Ryan</em>. What the hell would he have done if Ryan hadn't been around? Die in a ditch. Drop the soap. Ryan swallowed uneasily. The thought was enough to make his stomach churn. </p><p>Brendon shrugged. "All kinds'a stuff, I dunno."</p><p>"That isn't an answer."</p><p>"Ecstasy."</p><p>Ryan's eyes bugged out of his head. "Ecstasy?" he cried. "Brendon what were you doing with Ecstasy? I thought it was just weed or something. Ecstasy! Dude that fucks your brains. That fucks you up."</p><p>"Sure it does," Brendon agreed, continuing to smile. "But, God, it just makes the world so..."</p><p>He waved a hand at the sky as if it answered anything. </p><p>Ryan stared on at him. </p><p>"Brendon," he said, "I don't know what the hell that means."</p><p>"It's good, y'know," Brendon tried, "the world when you're high. It makes sense."</p><p>"How in God's name does it make sense?" Ryan asked. </p><p>He hadn't ever been on drugs. He hadn't ever smoked weed or cigarettes or drank booze. A glass of wine every once in a while. His father had made all those usual aspects of the ‘rock lifestyle’ less than appealing. </p><p>He was a simple man—Holy shit, Brendon was right. Ryan was simple. He was painstakingly <em>simple</em>. God forgive him. </p><p>"Listen alright," Brendon said and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Here's the thing. When you take it, when you feel it, man the rest of the world doesn't exist. And it's nice. Just to, y'know, forget for a while. Relax."</p><p>"Why the hell would you want to forget?" Ryan asked him. </p><p>He couldn't understand. What did Brendon have to forget? From where he sat, Brendon was the one living the high life. Got to keep the band. Got to keep Spencer. Got to keep the fans, the music. It was all his now. Who was Ryan? Just some dumbass that had written songs back in the day. Didn’t matter who’s words they were, Brendon was the one singing them. </p><p>Ryan was fading steadily into oblivion, dragging Jon down with him. He felt bad about that. Bad that he had selfishly asked Jon to come with him when things went south. Felt worse that Jon had actually agreed. </p><p>Brendon had it all as far as Ryan was concerned. Had too goddamned much. </p><p>Brendon let out a sigh and reached into his pocket to dig out a pack of cigarettes. Ryan opened his mouth to argue—Brendon shouldn't have been smoking, that would mess with his voice; they had figured that out a long time ago, but no actual words came out. </p><p>"Here," Brendon said, offering his pack of camels to Ryan after he had taken a cigarette out and placed it in the corner of his mouth. Ryan accepted the pack and held it with both hands in his lap. </p><p>"I didn't know you smoked." Ryan stared at the pack in his hands with wide eyes. </p><p>Brendon snorted. "What'd you mean? I've smoked forever."</p><p>"I mean, I didn't know you <em>still</em> smoked," Ryan tried again. "I thought you stopped after Highschool, that first year on the road. Weed is different, y’know, doesn’t fuck with your lungs so much. I dunno why but... I mean they never photographed you smoking cigarettes… I never saw—"</p><p>"I don't smoke when the paps are around," Brendon said like Ryan was an idiot. His speech was drifting off like he was falling asleep. Ryan tried hard to listen. It must have been the cigarette in the corner of his mouth that was hindering his annunciation. </p><p>"How do you know when they're around?" Ryan asked.</p><p>He had darted his eyes to the corner to watch Brendon’s profile. He had changed a lot since they had last seen each other. Shorter hair, which suited him. Baby fat was gone and he had a few weeks’ worths of stubble in a ratty goatee. He didn’t look bad… Then again, Ryan couldn’t think of a time he thought Brendon had ever looked bad. Even back then when he had that fringe and wore those red glasses. Hell, that was the Brendon Ryan had let himself fall in love with. </p><p>What an idiot he had been… what an idiot.</p><p>"Oh, they're always around," Brendon said through a chuckle, tugging his lighter from his pocket, “breathing down my neck 24/7. Saying shit about every move I make. Asking me every question under the sun and, still, never the ones that matter…”</p><p>Ryan shook his head, ignoring the end to ask, "so when do you smoke? If they’re always around." </p><p>"At home," Brendon answered. "Spencer’s house. Dal's."</p><p>"Dal?" Ryan repeated, caught off guard by the new name. </p><p>Brendon shifted, surprised, as if he couldn't believe what Ryan had said. "I—What?"</p><p>"Dal," Ryan said again, harsher, "you said 'Dal.' Who is Dal?"</p><p>"Oh." Brendon nodded to himself, shakily beginning to light his cigarette. "Y'know. Dallon Weekes. Our touring bassist.”</p><p>Ryan narrowed his eyes, his brain beginning to register. Yeah… Now he remembered. He’d seen videos of the two of them performing. Awful cozy. He sniffed and said, “well, tour’s over.”</p><p>"Yeah," Brendon cut him off, obviously uncomfortable. He shifted on the bench, frowning as he continued attempting to get his cigarette to flame. </p><p>"So, what're you doing still hanging out with him?" Ryan asked. </p><p>"He's a friend.” Brendon flicked his lighter and cursed when it still wouldn't do what he wanted it to do. It flickered, flickered. Lit up. Brendon lit his cigarette and held it to his mouth. Blew smoke from his lips. </p><p>"Good friend?" Ryan asked hesitantly. He squinted his eyes a tad.</p><p>"Great," Brendon said. </p><p>Ryan narrowed his eyes. Something about the whole thing rubbed him wrong but he didn't say anything about it out loud. No point. Brendon was high on ecstasy. He'd probably lie, anyway. </p><p>“I mean... y'know,” Brendon said as if he had reached some grand conclusion. </p><p>As if he was trying to change the subject before Ryan could finally come up with what he wanted to say. </p><p>He leaned his spine on the bench, bending his long neck over the back of it to look at the sky as he raised his cigarette to his lips to suck it slowly. “This is all such shitty shit.”</p><p>Ryan couldn’t help but let out a tiny snort, holding Brendon’s pack of camels in both his hands, thumbing at the edge of the open flap. The name <em>Dallon Weekes</em> was running through his head. He hated that man. He hated that man. </p><p>He repeated because it was funny, “shitty shit for sure,” but he doubted Brendon and he were talking about the same shit.</p><p>“You know what I mean?” Brendon asked, blinking up at the stars. “I mean, c’mon, man. You gotta know. This is all such shit now. All this stuff with-with you and Spencer. Hating each other and everything. Deleting numbers and-and fighting all the goddamn time. You used to love each other. <em>Love</em>, man. What happened? Shit.”</p><p>Ryan kept his mouth shut. He felt his heart thump in his chest and he thought to himself, <em>we used to love each other too, you know</em> but he knew better than to say it. His heart would break out loud.</p><p>“And all this shit with the other guys—I mean I haven’t talked to Jon either… like I’m at fault for him leaving. I didn’t ask him to leave, you did, and Dallon even—"</p><p>"What's wrong with Dallon?" Ryan wanted to hear that the man had some sort of incurable, terrible disease that left him crippled and constantly in pain. That was why Brendon was hanging out with him even outside of the tour. Pity and nothing more. </p><p>"He's a friend," Brendon replied with a sniff. "And he's... We... friends is hard."</p><p>"<em>Are</em> hard," Ryan corrected.</p><p>"Yeah." Brendon nodded. "Are hard."</p><p>Ryan's mind was getting angry. It had so many puzzle pieces and none of them seemed to fit together correctly.  </p><p>"And, I mean, all this shit with me is just getting—” Brendon let out a short sigh and there was something to it that Ryan hadn’t heard from him before. Not even when they were in high school in Brent’s basement sitting in a circle and Brendon had been staring at the ground when told them he was interested in more than just girls. “All this shit with me is getting fucking redundant.”</p><p>Ryan stopped, his brain stuttering to a halt as he turned his head to Brendon in surprise. </p><p>Just to look him over.</p><p>His neck was perfectly bent over the bench, exposing his tanned skin in the dark and his Adam’s apple that kept shuttering when he swallowed, and for a moment Ryan thought to himself that it looked like Brendon was waiting for it to be slit open.</p><p>Ryan imagined someone coming up to the two of them in the night, in all that darkness, and brandishing a knife. Telling them he wanted their money. And Ryan, well he would gladly give it over because he didn’t want to die. You see, Ryan had so much to live for. If he died, who would feed his dog? Who would get screwed over if he were dead? Who, who indeed?</p><p>Ryan imagined getting down onto his knees on the dusty sidewalk, scuffing his favorite jeans up, and putting his hands in the air. Palms up. Like a dog on it’s back.</p><p>Full surrender.</p><p>And Brendon would do nothing but sit there with his neck bent back like that, looking bored, and the guy would say to Brendon that if he didn’t move, he would have—he would be <em>forced</em>—to take extreme measures.</p><p>And Brendon would simply laugh to himself like it was the best joke he’d heard in a while and take a slow drag from his cigarette, staring at the stars, and he would say to the man, “well then, fucking do it if you gotta.”</p><p>And the man wouldn’t hesitate to cut Brendon across the throat, dig the knife into his flesh, and it would split in half. The knife would be clean and the cut would be one perfect line like a piece of thread and it would make Brendon’s head tilt back even further as the skin pulled apart.</p><p>The blood would gush backward because of the odd angle he was leaned and it would spill onto his chin and over his mouth, tainting his lips like lipstick to make him beautiful and it would stain the bottom of the cigarette stuck between his teeth.</p><p>Brendon would probably choke on the blood—surprised by the sudden turn of events—sputter and cough, and blobs of the black liquid would come from his mouth and he’d gurgle it in the back of his throat as he struggled to breathe, drowning in his own body.</p><p>And then at that last second, as the dyed red cigarette fell from his mouth and he raised his fingers to his neck to scrabble at the wound and try to push the blood back in his body—at the last moment—he’d realize that he didn’t actually want to die after all.</p><p>Ryan swallowed uneasily as the image cleared and it was just normal, living Brendon again, sitting there with his neck tilted back, Adam’s apple bobbing.</p><p>Ryan said, not sure what else to, “I’m sorry to hear that.”</p><p>“Yeah, me too. Shit sucks. Happens.” Brendon huffed before taking another hard breath of smoke. He flashed his eyes over the stars. “Look at this here; look up, Ry.”</p><p>He pointed at the sky and, reluctantly, Ryan tilted his head back to stare. Not so much though. He didn’t want to give off the wrong impression. Didn’t want his throat slit.</p><p>“I mean God<em>damn</em>,” Brendon said, breathless. “Stars. Goddamn stars, Ryan. Nothing like ‘em.”</p><p>Ryan blinked long and slow. Looked for something in the sky that he hadn’t yet seen before.</p><p>He searched for something awe-inspiring. Something earth-shattering. But all he saw were white specs, set pieces, something to line the ambiance of a night on a bus stop bench with clean throats.</p><p>“Fucking gorgeous,” Brendon muttered under his breath.</p><p>Ryan shrugged. “Guess so.”</p><p>His mind was still spinning with Brendon, smoking cigarettes while high, sitting on a park bench next to him with his neck thrown back, shorter hair and half a beard, pupils blown, and it had been years… three fucking years since they’d last seen each other. Ryan’s heart hurt. Maybe he was having palpitations or some shit.</p><p>“I tell you what, Ry,” Brendon declared, “I wish I was a star.”</p><p>“Brendon,” Ryan reminded through an awkward sigh, “you <em>are</em> a star.”</p><p>And Ryan wasn’t. That was the problem, wasn’t it?</p><p>Brendon didn’t so much as crack a smile. His response was dreary. “Not that kind. I don’t mean that kind of star. I mean like one of those big balls up there. Well, not balls. Don’t think of them as balls, that’s gross.”</p><p>Ryan stared at the balls in the sky.</p><p>“It’s like…” Brendon shook his head. “I don’t know how to say it, Ryan.”</p><p>Ryan wet his lips. “Try.”</p><p>Brendon glanced from the corner of his eyes, obviously alarmed Ryan said anything at all. They were so fucking black and wide and glistening in the light of the streetlamp ahead of the bus stop. Brendon’s lips were glistening and Ryan stared at them for a second, wondering if three years had made Brendon taste different. </p><p>“Really?” Brendon asked, unaware. “I’m pretty sure I’m rambling. Spencer says I do it. Hell, everyone says I do it. Dallon, even."</p><p>Why did he keep mentioning this Dallon person? Dallon Weekes was hardly worth a care. Ryan was mad just listening to the name out loud. Mad at how longingly Brendon said it. The way his eyes flickered and his lips formed the syllables. The way he bit the inside of his cheek. </p><p>Friends… </p><p>Dallon and Brendon were probably friends the same way Ryan and Brendon had been back in the day. </p><p>Brendon continued on, forlorn and tragic, "I can’t say a single word now without one of ‘em rolling their eyes and telling me to shut it, I swear.”</p><p>“You don’t talk too much,” Ryan assured him quietly. He was holding Brendon’s cigarette pack tightly in his lap.</p><p>“How would you know?” Brendon asked through a rough scoff. “We never talk.”</p><p>“It’s not for lack of trying on my part,” Ryan growled and there was anger there. The anger in his brain about Dallon Weekes and three lost years seeping into his words. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't. But it had bled through. </p><p>Brendon instantly turned away to the stars. Guilt. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that, you know. Spencer said it was best if we deleted your number. I didn’t though. If it makes you feel better. I never did. Couldn't. In case there was some emergency or some shit. I’d wanna know. If you died or something, I’d wanna know.”</p><p>Ryan didn’t know why but that felt like it was the nicest thing someone had said to him in a while. </p><p>“I’d want to know if you died too, Brendon." He let his voice tilt in a pained laugh. “Granted, I wouldn’t need your phone for that, I could just check the tabloids.”</p><p>Brendon snorted. There was no humor in his voice. “Fuck the tabloids. I hope they never find out if I die. I hope no one does. I hope I just croak, and life goes on like I never existed in the first place.”</p><p>Ryan frowned, worry lines etching themselves into his face at the thought. Of going to Brendon Urie’s funeral… if he was even invited, that was. </p><p>Of standing there at an expensive coffin with Brendon Urie tucked away inside in his favorite suit—the navy one with the different flowers on the lapels. Brendon had always liked suits with flowers.</p><p>“I think,” Brendon said, “I’d like to die… in the fall. September, maybe?”</p><p>Ryan felt his blood run cold.</p><p>“September’s nice, isn’t it?” It was like he was actually inquiring.</p><p>“I don’t think any day is a good day to die, Brendon,” Ryan reasoned stiffly. His blood felt thick in his veins. Clotted. </p><p>“Oh, whatever.” Brendon waved a hand. “I’m just saying. Sometime in the Fall, before the next album release. Right after touring so the hubbub has died down a bit. So like… I mean, people won’t care so much. If I die. People won't care. It’ll be like, ‘Brendon Urie died’ and the people’ll go, ‘who? Sorry, forgot all about him.’ Do you know? Dying after tour in the Fall. That’s the dream right there. That's the dream, Ry.”</p><p>Ryan chewed at the inside of his cheek. Tasted metal. “Can’t the dream be never dying at all?”</p><p>Brendon let out a hum of thought. “Nah. I don’t wanna live forever. Who the hell wants that? No one wants to live forever. That's shit, Ry. After a hundred years, I mean what are you supposed to do with all that time? Immortality? Fuck that, man. I’d go insane. I’ve only been alive twenty-four years and it feels like twenty-four too many. I couldn’t do a million more. God, I couldn’t.”</p><p>He shivered as if it was something horrific. Ryan twitched in tandem. </p><p>He licked his lips again and worried to himself about life and why Brendon didn’t want to live it.</p><p>“Y’know,” Brendon once again started, jolting Ryan into listening. “Stars die every day. Big globs of gas that flicker, flicker, boom. And it’s insane that one night I could be looking at a star and when the next night I peer up—the same sky—it won’t be there anymore. But how am I supposed to know, right? I’ll never know if the star I made friends with the night before is dead or not; I just have to look up and take a guess. And, y'know, I realize that they’re all going to die, and I’m never going to know when they do. And it makes me think that really, what the hell am I doing, because at least I’m living longer than a star.”</p><p>It hit Ryan then why Brendon wanted to be a star in the sky. He wanted to die in a day.</p><p>Ryan let out a sharp breath. Felt his chest collapse with it. He listened to the sound of the night. Cars honking in the distance and the crickets. Felt the cold air say hello to him as it kissed up his skin and left goosebumps in its wake. It was Fall. In between the album and the tour. Nearly time for Brendon to die a perfect death.</p><p>Ryan let the stars mock him. But what did it matter? They’d be dead tomorrow. They would be dead tomorrow and Brendon would be dead come three days. He had to enjoy them while they were there.</p><p>He was shaking.</p><p>“Brendon, you can’t do it,” he whispered into the night, staring at the dying stars.</p><p>Brendon glanced over at him, holding his cigarette to his mouth with two fingers. He was stiff as a board. “Can’t do what?”</p><p>“You can’t kill yourself, Brendon,” Ryan mumbled desperately, shaking his head. “You can’t do it, man. You can’t.”</p><p>Brendon’s black eyes widened in shock. And Ryan wished he could say that it was Brendon’s shock that he had proposed such a thing but he knew it was only the shock that Ryan had figured him out.</p><p>Brendon didn’t say a word.</p><p>“You fucking can’t,” Ryan said and there was sudden anger in his voice. “You fucking selfish prick; you can’t do it. You can’t kill yourself, I won’t let you. I won’t let you do that to me. You can’t do that to me.”</p><p>Brendon drew his brows in, snapping suddenly, “who the Hell said it had anything to do with you? This isn’t about you, Ryan. What the fuck does it matter; we haven’t seen each other in three fucking years and you’re gonna tell me I can’t—”</p><p>“It’s you’re fucking fault we haven’t seen each other!” Ryan spat. “Of <em>course</em> it has something to do with me! I don’t care how distant you are. I don’t care that the only reason you called me tonight was because you’re fucking high and you needed someone to bail you out who wouldn’t tell anyone. I don’t care that I’m some secret now and I don’t care that I was then too!”</p><p>There was instant guilt in Brendon’s face and he ducked his head so Ryan couldn’t see those black eyes. </p><p>“I don’t care, Brendon,” Ryan said, “you know that all this shit… I mean all this shit with Spencer and Jon and me, it just—” he let out a sigh— "I know that it’s shit.”</p><p>“It’s really fucking shit,” Brendon agreed to his hands. </p><p>There was a long pause between them and Ryan could hear the cars honking nearby and he wondered to himself how long he had with Brendon until the bus got there. He hated this shit. He hated that after three years, Brendon was high when they talked.</p><p>Hated that Brendon was the one who got everything and still wasn’t happy.</p><p>Ryan shook his head back and forth. “I’m sorry you’re—I’m sorry that you’re not happy, Brendon.”</p><p>Brendon paused. He was still talking to his hands. He sounded so fucking small. Whispering. “Are <em>you</em>… happy?”</p><p>Ryan’s jaw clenched for a second. He took a breath to steady himself. He said, “I’ve got a dog.”</p><p>Brendon nodded like that was any answer. “Right.”</p><p>“You can’t…” Ryan wet his lips. “It would be a dumb thing to die, Brendon.”</p><p>Brendon stared up at him. Stared long and hard. His black eyes were glassy. And then he blinked a few times, opened his mouth and closed it, before he said—quiet, “okay.”</p><p>“Okay?” Ryan repeated. </p><p>“Okay. I won’t. I’ll uh… I’ll… I won’t.” Brendon turned away from him and back to the stars, swallowing hard, and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat.</p><p>Ryan couldn’t seem to catch his breath.</p><p>Brendon took a deep drag of his cigarette and the smoke flowered from his lips up into the sky, bubbling up to cover the stars like a soft grey cloud.</p><p>“Look at that, man,” Brendon murmured from around his cigarette. He pointed a finger at the stars. “Fucking look at that. Shooting star, Ry, make a wish.”</p><p>Ryan whispered, “I wish you would live forever.”</p><p>“I wish I would die in the fall after tour,” Brendon said.</p><p>“I wish it’s when you’re a hundred years old.” Ryan watched the sky, searching for another falling star to place that wish on. None came.</p><p>“I hope it’s when I’m twenty-five,” Brendon decided.</p><p>Ryan turned his head.</p><p>Brendon’s eyes caught his for a moment.</p><p>“I’ll give it a year, huh,” he said reasonably. “I’ve got a new album coming out soon enough. Timing isn’t right. The interviewers would give Spencer hell, wouldn’t they? And he’s taken too much shit as is.”</p><p>Ryan stared at him. He asked, “why?”</p><p>“Why what?” Brendon wanted to know. </p><p>“Why are you hurting so much?” Ryan’s brow was furrowed deeply. </p><p>Brendon didn’t seem to like that so much. He looked away again and, that time, he didn’t look back. He stared down the road and Ryan could only assume he was waiting for the bus. His voice was low when he spoke. “Sometimes… you miss people, y’know…”</p><p>He coughed up a puff of smoke and proceeded to cover his mouth with a hand before wiping his eyes with a fist. </p><p>Ryan gnawed on the inside of his lip. He agreed with that. Looking at Brendon’s messy hair and his big black eyes that wouldn’t meet Ryan’s. Thinking about three years. Yeah. Certainly.</p><p>Sometimes you miss people. </p><p>“Right,” Ryan mumbled.</p><p>Brendon nodded to himself and smoked long and hard, hollowing his cheeks. “Right, man. Right.”</p><p>And Ryan wondered if the world had ever felt so wrong.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Y'all ever listened to 5sos? Shit's lit. It's one a.m. </p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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